


We'll Take a Cup of Kindness, Yet

by imaginationtherapy



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hugs, M/M, Max had a rough day, Mild Blood, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss, because of course
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:35:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22064122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginationtherapy/pseuds/imaginationtherapy
Summary: It's New Year's Eve day, and both Max and Morse are working. They should be able to welcome the new year together, assuming nothing goes terribly wrong. But Max knows the universe can be unkind--it doesn't discriminate between the sinners and the saints.So when he gets a call out--three bodies, one officer down--at the same address that Morse was to be at, Max fears the worst.The sight of the body at Thursday's feet doesn't calm him at all.
Relationships: Max DeBryn/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 13
Kudos: 62





	We'll Take a Cup of Kindness, Yet

**Author's Note:**

> Me: I should jump on the New Year's Eve fic train!  
> Y'all: Parties! Champagne! Fireworks! Kisses!  
> Me: ........angst?

Max Debyrn had long ago come to terms with the fact that no matter what one believed, or who one prayed to, the universe would continue to spin on its axis. It blessed some, cursed others; it gave and it took without discrimination. If one wanted happiness, one had to seek it out, work for it, hold on to it and never let go. Max lived by that rule, carving out his own little bit of paradise in his brick cottage and homey kitchen and perfect mess of a garden. 

Thus far, the universe had been kind enough to Max. It most certainly hadn’t blessed him-- he would never be able to get married to someone he loved, move in together, own a home. But it hadn’t really cursed him either-- he _had_ found someone. They had made it work, somehow, for a few years now. Neither he nor Morse were very good at expressing what they were feeling, but they managed to fill in the gaps with gentle hands and soft lips, cups of tea on cold nights and warm meals after long days. If was Max was honest, they probably had made it this long because they were both too bloody stubborn to let go, no matter what the universe threw at them. 

At least, until now. 

Max felt the receiver slip in his hand, suddenly sweaty and unsteady, as the panicky voice on the other end read off the address. He was the pathologist stuck working the holiday--New Year’s Eve-- and somewhere in Oxford, a police stakeout had gone _very wrong_. At least three confirmed dead, but the scene was rather chaotic and none of the reports were very clear. Max’s caller knew only two things for certain: the pathologist was needed, and the location of the disaster.

It was that address that had Max’s heart pounding. 

Max had agreed to work the day, because CID had an operation planned and Morse’s presence was required. Neither of them had been happy about the prospect, but Max preferred to be working rather than sitting at home alone. He would have just worried, and this way at least he could keep his hands busy with something other than baking. They did _not_ need any more cookies. Assuming everything went according to plan, the two of them should at least be able to meet up for the evening. It wouldn’t be a very festive New Years, both of them tired and too late for any parties, but they had some champagne and they had each other.

The day, however, had clearly _not_ gone according to plan. By all accounts, it had gone rather drastically wrong. The address that Max could see hastily scribbled in his own handwriting, the address where three bodies waited for him, the address at which the police were currently utterly in panic--it was the same address that Morse was to be at. 

Max took a deep breath-- _focus_ , he had to focus. He knew almost nothing, nothing except that he was needed and that there were bodies. There was no indication that anything had happened to _Morse_. None at all. Until he heard a sudden commotion in the background.

 _Officer down, repeat, officer down. Request ambulance!_

Max’s whole world narrowed to that frantic voice, just beyond the static and the drone of whatever his caller was trying to convey. He didn’t _know_ \--there were any number of officers there, certainly. Any one of them could have fallen. Even if it was Morse, a call of _man down_ didn’t immediately imply...he could merely be injured. 

He tried to tell himself that, tried to keep his hands from shaking as he hung up and gathered up his kit and keys. It was no use. Flashes of his past with Morse crowded in on his vision--reddish hair glinting in summer sunlight, pale skin under his adoring hands, delicate fingers ghosting reverently over his chest, long legs swung easily over the back of his couch, soft lips smiling up at him from where Morse’s head rested in his lap. He could taste Morse on his lips, from when they parted last night, could smell Morse all around him, could still feel the press of his hands from the night before. 

_God, Morse_.

The night was inky black all around him as he drove, an icy drizzle making the roads wet and unfriendly. It seeped into his skin, that all-consuming darkness, pulling out memories that Max would rather not recall. Morse’s pinched, pale face and blood-stained side after he’d taken a knife to the stomach under the Bodleian. The call of _two bodies_ and the sight of Morse, covered in blood and unmoving beneath Thursday’s stricken face. The sight of Jago’s gun pointed at Morse’s chest. 

And that one awful call out, the one that brought him to George Fancy’s bullet-ridden corpse. The one that haunted his dreams--in which it was Morse’s chest covered in blood, Morse’s lips trailing blood, and _Morse’s_ body under his knife on the table. 

That was the image that stayed with him, as Max neared the lights and chaos at the scene. Morse’s eyes, staring unseeing at the ceiling, his jaw slack, lips parted in a silent plea for life.

As Max pulled his car to the curb, he found himself immobilized with terror for one agonizing second, wondering if this was the day the universe chose to turn on him, if this was the day it chose to steal something precious from him. He prayed, to no one in particular, that this wasn’t the day-- or the _year_ \-- that Morse died.

* * *

The scene was in utter pandemonium when Max stumbled from the car. Uniformed officers were running back and forth, some shouting orders, some trying to keep back curious onlookers. Max recognized a few CID men frantically pointing and shouting and doing God only knew what. One of them shoved him through the doorway, muttering hurried directions before sprinting off in the opposite direction. 

There were bodies, alright. Two right inside the door--bloodied, torn, and very much _not Morse_. Max sucked in a shuddering breath, focusing in on the injuries. A stabbing, it seemed, at least for those two. Violent too, but the looks of it. 

He’d been called there for the bodies, he knew--pathologists usually dealt with the dead. Kemp would have gotten right to work, knelt down in the middle of the noise and the movement and air thrumming with fear. Max was _not_ Doctor Kemp, and until he had been convinced that there were no living injured that needed tending--the ambulance had clearly not yet arrived--the two corpses on the floor could bloody well wait.

And Max knew himself well enough to admit that he needed to find Morse, needed to _know_. 

So he forced himself to turn away from the grisly sight, forced himself to scan the room for more blood, more bodies, more injuries. 

He found Thursday first. The Inspector was easy to recognize, standing tall and immobile like an oak in the midst of the swirling storm around him. 

It was the figure at his feet that made Max’s world spin, however. 

He knew those shoes. He knew those long, elegant legs. He’d bought that torn, blue suit jacket, because he couldn’t resist the way it looked against Morse’s pale skin. He’d helped button up that pale blue shirt, now stained with rusty red. He’d kissed those lips. 

_God, Morse_.

He was leaned up against the wall, completely motionless. His head had rolled to the side, exposing the long column of his throat and the few splatters of blood that clung to his deathly white skin. His shirt collar was open--it looked like someone had torn it open-- his tie completely gone. 

_Not moving, not moving, not moving._

The words echoed in his mind, syncing with the _click_ of his shoes on the hard floor. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to confirm what his mind already knew. But he had to. It was his job, it was why he was here. 

In that moment, Max was grateful for his training. Grateful for the professional mask that he could fall behind. Grateful for the automation brought by years of experience. His mouth would say the words, his hands would do the work, his mind would catalog the information. His heart, his soul, his very _self_ \--that had shattered beyond repair.

Max found himself at Thursday’s side. He forced himself to look away from Morse, to meet the Inspector’s eyes.

“Inspector.” His voice was strong, steady. It was also flat, emotionless. “How did--”

“Max?”

Max turned so quickly that he felt something give in his neck. The sudden pain faded at the sight of two very blue, very _alive_ , eyes looking back at him. 

“ _Morse?”_

Morse jerked forward, something flashing across his face that Max didn’t have the capacity to identify. Thursday’s hand was on Morse’s shoulder before he’d gotten very far, his voice cutting through the spinning fog that had enveloped Max.

“Easy, there, Morse. Easy.”

Max felt the ground slam into his knees as he reached for Morse. The man was alive, but there was blood, so much blood. His hands skittered over Morse’s chest, searching, searching, _searching_. Where was it coming from--he had to stop it, stop Morse from bleeding out, he still had a chance, there was still _time--_

“Max.” Morse’s fingers curled over Max’s wrist, strong and steady and warm. “Max, I’m alright.”

Max glanced up at Morse, then to Thursday.

“Harrelson shoved one of the victims at him,” Thursday explained, voice low and even. “Trying to get away. Didn’t expect it and took a tumble. Hit his head on the floor and was out for a bit.” Thursday laid a hand on Max’s shoulder. “I didn’t see you come in, Doctor. I would have warned you.”

Max took a shaky breath. Thursday knew, of course. He kept too close an eye on Morse to have not noticed the difference in Morse those first few months. He never mentioned it directly, just alluding to it gently, letting them know that he _knew_ and it was _alright._

“Max?” Morse’s grip tightened on his hand. Max looked up at him. Morse’s eyes were worried, his forehead creased in concentration. 

“They said there was an officer down.” Max twisted his wrist, sliding his hand down to clutch at Morse’s hand. No one could see, not with the way Thursday hovered over them. Max let his eyes drift shut for a moment, let himself focus on the feel of Morse’s hand in his. His fingers drifted, finding Morse’s heartbeat-- steady and strong, albeit rather rapid. Max squeezed Morse’s hand, probably tighter than was comfortable. He gave himself a moment, just a moment, to rest in the knowledge that Morse was _alright._

“I’m sorry, Max.” Morse’s voice was soft, gentler than he usually spoke to Max in public. 

Max shook his head. “You weren’t to know.” He locked eyes with Morse. “You’re alright. That’s...that’s all that matters.”

Morse smiled at him, a deep, honest smile that soaked into Max like warm brandy. It steadied his nerves, brought him back to the present. 

“Right. Let’s get you looked at, then.” He turned to Thursday, feeling his mask slide back into place. “Unless there’s others that need tending?”

Max pulled his gloves on, and with them, his sense of self. He wasn’t quite okay--wouldn’t be until he had a chance to really _feel_ Morse again--but he was Doctor DeBryn again, and could be for as long as he needed.

The universe hadn’t managed to best him, after all.

* * *

It was nearing midnight when they finally stumbled through Morse’s door. Neither of them had to be in that day, and Morse’s was the closest. Max was exhausted physically, and feeling rather drained emotionally. He’d thought for nearly an hour that he might have lost Morse, and while he was used to bodies, the three women who’d been murdered that night had taken their toll on his already frayed nerves. 

He wanted to sleep.

Morse kicked the door shut behind him and turned to Max. He looked like he wanted to say something, but Max didn’t give him a chance. Max tugged Morse to him, wrapped his arms around Morse’s waist and buried his face in the man’s shoulder. 

Morse let out a huff of laughter. “Alright, Max. I’m alright.” Max felt Morse’s arms around him, strong and whole and _alive_. One hand came up to cup the back of his neck, fingers rubbing soothing circles on his skin.

Max felt his facade fade away, dripping off of him to mingle with the raindrops on the floor. It had taken a while, before he’d been able to be just _Max_ with Morse, before he’d been able to completely drop _Doctor DeBryn_. He relished it, though. In the chance to be human again, honest and open with someone. He hadn’t been, for years, only opening himself up to the flowers and the sunshine in his garden. But with Morse he could be vulnerable, he could cling to the man with a strength of emotion that he wouldn’t dare show elsewhere.

“I thought you dead, Morse,” Max finally managed. He pulled back just far enough to let his eyes roam over Morse’s face.

“I’m right here, Max.” Morse’s fingers gently stroked at the side of Max’s face, gentle and tender and _healing_. “I’m right here.”

Max nodded. “I don’t quite find myself wanting to let you go.”

A small smile curled at the edges of Morse’s lips. He leaned down and kissed Max, slow and soft.

“You don’t have to,” he murmured against Max’s skin. His breath ghosted across Max’s face, warm and comforting and almost holy. Morse bent his head, skin brushing against skin as he kissed a path down Max’s jaw and neck. He laughed again, making Max shiver. “Not until next year, at least.”

Max let out a short breath of laughter. “I’d hope a bit longer, if I might.” He turned his head to meet Morse’s lips in another kiss. 

When they parted, just enough to breath, Max traced a path across the side of Morse’s face with reverent fingers. He wanted to memorize the lines and curves and angles of that face again, feel Morse’s skin under his fingers, feel the press of Morse’s body, feel the thrum of Morse’s heartbeat against his chest.

“I love you, Morse,” he whispered. “You...you’re precious to me.”

Morse twitched back a bit, amusement glittering in his eyes. “Precious? That’s a new word for you, Max.”

“I’m serious, Morse.” Max shook his head, tapping Morse smartly on the nose. “I thought the universe took you from me tonight.”

Morse’s face sobered. His hands came up, framing Max’s face with warmth and safety and _home_. 

“Not tonight.” Morse’s thumbs stroked Max’s cheekbones, somehow in time with the sudden muffled explosions from outside. Morse paused, his eyes flicking to the window behind Max. When he glanced back at Max, his eyes were smiling. “ _We’ll take a cup of kindness_ , Max, _for auld lang syne_.” 

Morse leaned in, then, kissing Max with a gentle hunger. Sparks danced across Max’s skin where Morse touched him, lighting fireworks that only they could see and feel and hear. Max let himself melt into Morse, let Morse support him and surround him. Morse was safe, alive, whole, and _his._ Maybe, just this once, the universe had chosen to be kind to them. Maybe just this once, he was to be allowed to keep something precious and golden and _beautiful_. 

Max didn’t know what the year might bring them--whether it would be sorrow or pain or joy or love. He only knew--and only cared--that right now, he had everything that mattered.

“Happy new year, Max,” Morse whispered.

Max nuzzled into Morse, his lips brushing over Morse’s skin and setting off a whole new round of sparks. 

“Happy new year, my Morse.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, a one-shot!  
> Okay, I promise, I'll get back to work on my WIPS. I just...got distracted. Also, I wrote this in like 3 hours and it's 1:30 am and I'm not sure why I'm still up...so apologies if that wasn't one of my best or if I didn't edit very well.
> 
> At the risk of sounding needy...spare a comment? I'd love to hear what you all think...I'm breaking in my Max-introspection and would appreciate (kind) feedback and suggestions. <3
> 
> Happy New Year! <3


End file.
